Delayed
by Bleeding Jazz Gums
Summary: Five years. Five years Westley spent alone-but not idle.
1. A Beginning

"_Hear this now. I will always come for you._"  
>"<em>But how can you be sure?<em>"  
>"<em>This is true love. You think this happens every day?<em>"

"Ah. Wot've we got 'ere, lads?"

Westley internally cursed, then thought better, and cursed outloud. The pirate standing over his hunched over body laughed. "You don't mean that in the romantic term, I 'ope?"

Brow furrowed, standing as straight as he could with all muscles tensed, Westley didn't respond though he could feel the flush of anger and humiliation claw up his neck.

"Scoundrel," He declared hotily. The man threw his head back and guffawed. "Son, ya can't 'ope to compare t'tha insults I've been on the recievin' end 'o all these years."

Which could very well be true. But it didn't mean he wasn't about to try.

"Perhaps if one said them often enough you would begin to realize the error of your person," he sneered. There was silence on the beaten and battered deck where a small group of pirates had taken residence. The crew that had been lucky(or unlucky, as it were) enough to still be alive after the miniature duel were huddled into a small pile near the center of the deck, and not lightly guarded.

The man in front of him, however, was clearly the captain; if the way the rest of them didn't immedietely hush when he spoke, or quickly move out of the way when he walked by wasn't a clue, then it was the air surrounding him-the way he stood, feet apart and shoulders back, chin tilted at an arrogant angle in such a way that he could peer down his nose at you. If Westley hadn't known better, his first assumption was that he had come from a life of wealth and ease.

As it were, wealth and ease or poor with broken backs, his glare didn't diminish.

By now, the pirates amusement had been replaced with something that looked suspiciously like curiosity. "Wots yer name, son?"

To say Westley was wary would be quite the understatement.

"...Westley."

And for a few more moments, no one said anything. The pirate scratched his chin through his sullied beard thoughtfully. And then he sighed.

"I'm real sorry, lad-"

Westley paled.

"-But t'Dread Pirate Roberts dunna leave captives o'live." He sent a meaningful look behind him, and many of the pirates nodded.

The crew was dealt with quickly, nearly effortlessly, and, Westley noted in the back of his mind, solemnly. No laughs, no jokes, no words. Just solemn silence.

And then Roberts shifted, drawing his blade, and took a step closer.

And that's when Westley realized he was going to die.

"I am sorry, lad." Roberts sighed again. He couldnt stand it.

Buttercup-his sweet, spoiled, demanding Buttercup-flashed before his eyes.

"Please."

Roberts paused, staring hard at him while he swallowed and tried to work up spit to speak properly.

"Please," he said again, quietly, looking up into the pirates surprisingly _kindly _looking green eyes. "I have to live."

And he described her.

He described Buttercup, in all her beauty, the words tumbling from his lips uncontrollably. The way her hair would _shine _when the first rays of morning light were caught in it, when the breeze lifted it and sent it soaring. The way she smiled, one corner of her mouth tilted up just a bit higher than the other, with just the hint of a pearly white smile showing, and how it made the corners of her eyes crinkle adorably. Eyes the color of a Spring morning, he said. Clear and fresh, darkening with anger, bright with mirth. Porcelain skin, unblemished and untouched by the life as a farmers daughter. The way his love grew for her, everytime she looked up at him or ordered him around even without a look in his direction. The way she loved him, by no means as much as his love for her, but still so stunningly sincere and such a stunning amount of love she had for him, farm boy. The princess without a crown and the farm boy. The way he saw she would only look at him, only glance at him from under her lashes, never at the village boys or travelers. Always him. Just him. Her trust in him to travel to far away lands and earn the money for a ceremony she deserved.

And when he was done, out of breath and heartsick at the thought of leaving her alone, of the pain she'd go through once she got word of his death, so heartsick he felt _ill_, he bowed his head and trembling, closed his eyes and thought of Buttercup. Waiting for the end.

The end didn't come.

When he dared to look up at the man almost a head taller than himself, to say that he was confused as he watched Roberts stroke his beard in an almost absent manner, eyes squinted... Lost in thought.

"...I think I hav' meself an idea, fellows," He called, eyes still trained on the pale Westley. The pirates didn't respond; it seemed as if all were waiting with baited breaths.

"I need meself a cabin boy." Roberts head tilted, almost curiously. "Woulda ya' be interested, lad?"

Buttercup, sweet, innocent Buttercup flashed before his minds eye. Sweet, innocent, broken Buttercup hearing the news of his death.

"Yes."

* * *

><p>I'm such a glutton for punishment. I CANNOT STOP THE IDEAZ. afrjgj.<p>

will be updated at random.*self loathing sigh*


	2. Freedom

_Four months at sea_

He dreamed.

Sometimes it was about her, sometimes it was about the other ways that the talk between himself and Roberts could've turned out. He dreamed he once said no.

He woke up in the middle of the night, in a coldsweat, with the sound of steel being freed from a scabbard and the taste of his own blood in his mouth.

Mostly, though, it was just the sea he dreamed about. The lulling waves, the calming effect it had on him as he gently skimmed the waters top, close enough to feel its coolness but not enough for it to touch. The way it sounded against rock and boat, or gently lapping sand. The way it was the exact same shade as her eyes. When he dreamed of beautiful blue sea, he felt... at peace.

He felt _home._

And when Roberts asked him what he did in his spare time, he honestly hadn't meant to blurt out, '_Dream. I dream._'

It just sort of... happened.

And then Roberts laughed.

"Ah, hell, boy!" He chortled, and Westley could feel the flush work its way up his throat. "Yer out on t'great open sea! Tis what dreams err _made_'ov!"

Roberts was sitting on the railing, a crisp, half eaten red apple in one hand and the other keeping himself balanced on the wooden rail. He was on the deck, a rusted old pail beside him, almost covered in sea water and suds. The day was hot, nearly unbearably so, but Westley was both used to heat and work-so although the scenery had changed, some things did not.

"Not mine," He murmured, scrubbing hard.

Roberts shook his head, and though he couldn't be sure, he thought he saw the pirates lips twitch. "Boy, e'ery mans dream is t'come out t'open water like here." He waved the hand currently occupied by the apple. "T'be _free_, lad. Tis e'ery mans dream."

He couldn't help the snort of amusement that escaped, and immedietely ducked his head; Roberts had taken a liking to smacking the back of his skull whenever he was 'out of line'. Westley was sure that was only an excuse, since he did it so often, even if Westley was simply standing there and Roberts happened to be walking by.

The pirate, however, merely cocked his head to the side curiously. "Wots that sound fer, lad?"

Unwilling to have his ears once again ringing, he kept silent.

And got an applecore to the crown of his head for his efforts.

"Ow!" A sudsy hand rose and clutched blonde locks. "What was-?"

"Ya din't answer." Roberts shrugged. He thought about grumbling, but really, what would be the point? He'd always been more of a do-er than a say-er, and though Roberts had managed to get him to say more than one-syllable words at times, complaining would only get him another blow to the head.

And, well, maybe he did want to elaborate. A little. Just a smidge.

"I have seen freedom," Westley began slowly. "I have seen freedom in the shape of fire and steel-in the eyes of children looking for bits of bread to soothe the worst of hunger pangs. Freedom is death, Captain. I am not prepared to be free just yet."

The man looked nonplussed by this quiet declaration, and did not take long to form a reply. "Tis a fine, fanciful thought, lad. But do yeh not feel t'spray o'the sea on yer face? T'wind in yer hair? Does this," His arms widened, gesturing widely both to the ship and to the open sea. "Not count as freedom?"

Raising and settling himself on his haunches, Westley surveyed the crisp blue water that was just a few shades off from his dream-waves. "Water can, as well, be a freedom, yes."

Roberts rolled his eyes. "Boy, tis t'most free ye'll ever be!"

Westley shrugged. "Perhaps I don't want to be free," He challenged quietly. "Perhaps I want to be smothered, and told what to do, and have another there who would hinder upon any freedom that would beckon for me."

"Ah," Roberts nodded in understanding. "Tis yer lass ye speak'o, I presume."

"Quite."

"Ah, lad," the pirate sighed in mock exasperation. "I canna' see t'what be more appealin' then tis' here sea. Ye dream'o hungry babes and demandin' wives, son. Ye'd yearn fer that o'er this?" Some of his thoughts must've shown on his face, for it wasn't long until Roberts had hopped on the deck and was nearly doubled over with laughter.

"Aye!" He half chuckled, half groaned. "Aye, you do, I can see it."

With an embarassed huff, Westley went back to scrubbing the deck. Even with Roberts amused laughter ringing in the air, he refused to look up.

* * *

><p>I can already tell 'Roberts' is going to be my favorite.<p> 


	3. Advice

_Six months at sea_

Westley did not feel comfortable.

Not at all.

"I don't-" He ducked, felt the air shift as Roberts' sword whizzed by just a breath too close for comfort. "-I don't think-"

"Wrong!" Roberts barked, reigning in his assault. "If ye t'weren't thinkin', ye would be reactin', boy! If ye were reactin', ye wouldn't be off cowerin' like 'o woman."

Having heard it all and then some from his beautiful doting bride to be, Westley didn't feel too inclined to rise for the bait. Roberts sighed. "Lad, ye got'ta learn t'fight."

"I know how to fight."

"Fightin' ain't just don' wit'yer fists. Ye ned'ter learn t'sword fight."

He looked down distastefully at the end of a mop he had been given in the stead of an actual sword, then back up at Roberts with a bland expression bordering on insulted.

Roberts threw back his head and laughed.

"I don't see why I should be given a bit of wood and you get the sharp, pointy steel," He declared hottily. Amused, eyes twinkling, Roberts raised one fist and then his index finger.

"One, b'cause I am t'Captain. Two," Another finger went up. "Simply b'cause I dunna trust ye wit'o sharp, pointy steel."

"That hardly seems fair."

"Take yer grievance up wit number one." He wiggled the first finger, and then lowered his hand and raised his steel. "Let'os try this again, lad."

Westley groaned out loud. But it was very, very quietly.

"Again!"

Westley knew what work was. He knew the value of a strong back, of muscle, grit and sweat. Nothing was ever earned without a bit of hardwork, whether from yourself or a second party. He'd sweated, bled, ached before.

But after a single afternoon with Roberts as a master, Westley was unsure if he would ever raise his arms again.

It was too bad. He rather did enjoy holding Buttercup. Not fetching her pails of water, though. Or scrubbing her horses sattle. He supposed every downside had a brightness to it in the right light.

At least he wouldn't have to cut anymore firewood.

"Ye got t'heart, lad," Roberts said, leaning next to him against the wooden banister and snapping his sword back within its scabbard. "Stamina and strength, t'be sure," he went on, leaning back now and cracking his spine, followed closely by a jawbreaking yawn. "But ye can't win all battles wit' strength 'lone. Strength'll just give ye confidence. Ye get cocky, lad," he wagged a finger. "and ye mights well give yer enemy yer own sword to slash ye wit'."

Westley frowned down at his hands.

"Work smart, not hard." After a contemplative chin scratching, Roberts sighed, hoisted himself to his feet and stretched once more. "'Bout time I retire," he murmured, turning a critical eye upon Westley. "'Bout time ye retired s'well, boy."

With soundless sigh, Westley nodded and stood up, turning to retire to his own cabin.

"Goodnight, Westley," Roberts called cheerfully from the open door of his cabin. "Sleep well, I'll most likely kill ye in t'mornin'."

With the gentle click of the cabin door closing echoing softly around him, Westley shuddered.

* * *

><p>I really wanted to make something that showed Roberts getting just a little soft towards Westley, and give him some advice(which is advice that I've actually recieved a number of times. When I first got the idea to do these chapters, I figured it was PERFECT, and, I admit, I wanted to write that last bit of dialogue so bad I nearly wet myself) that actually gets Westley thinking-right now, he's this farmboy who thinks you can only get what you want by breaking your back for it. In the movie, he(at least up until the FireswampROUS scene, tutut, Westley!) works smart... Not hard.

and I need to stop analysing my own writing.

goodnight.


	4. Alike

_Seven months at sea_

He was getting better.

Not by much, of course, and certainly nothing to warrent praise, but it was there. Even if just barely.

He'd learn to move quicker, and to block instead of trying to dodge away. The mop hadn't taken taken the abuse well.

"You're really attempting to cause me injury!" He shouted between gasps of breath one evening, having tossed aside his now utterly useless 'defence', which had splintered to bits some time ago.

"M'not obliged t'go easy on ye, lad," Roberts said, amused. "Yer on me ship now. Ye'll learn t'fight like a man."

It may have been because he was tired, and he was sore, and hungry that the next words just managed to slip out. But he'd been all of those things before, and still had never dared utter a word of reply to someone of higher rank than he. As it was, he was pretty sure that Roberts insanity was just contagious when he muttered, "And if I don't?"

The silence on deck was deafening.

Nothing was uttered while Roberts walked forward and picked up the stump of a mop that was left of Westleys defence, holding it in his palm as if weighing it.

The next thing Westley knew, he had a facefull of dirty rags.

"Ye'll do as yer told, boy."

What could he say to that?

"Block!" He barked.

With a stump of a mop, Westley did his best.

And, as one gangly pirate so eloquently put it afterwards, 'had yer ass handed back t'ya, eh?'

It was when he was left panting on the deck surrounded by splinters and rags did it occur that Roberts might be.. _Taking it easy _on him.

This simply wouldn't do.

It wasn't as if he had any solid evidence to support this theory. In fact, every afternoon he spent with Roberts that involved that _blasted _mop proved that theory wrong. He'd be clutching that damn mop stump so hard, his fingers would be unable to let go of it afterwards. Strange as it was-and yes, Westley did realize it was strange-he took a small comfort from it.

But the thought that maybe, _just maybe_, Roberts was... _Holding back_... Grated on his nerves like nothing else. So much so, that he wasn't even aware his stoic mask had slipped until Jack, the ships designated chef, had pointed it out over peeled potatoes.

"Ya know, lad," Jack, a middle aged man with a round belly and body hair hinting that someplace in his family history, someone must have married an R.O.U.S. "Ya keep frownin' at them potatoes, they'll shrivel up 'fore I can get'tem in the soup. Wass got ya knickers in a bunch, lad?"

Glancing down to the sad-looking, half peeled spud, Westley sighed. "Is it truly that noticeable?" He asked dryly.

Unapologetic, Jack waggled a wooden spoon at him knowingly. "As transparent as t'wind, ya are."

Frowning, he turned his attention back to the potato and carefully begun peeling once again. "You know of my arrangement with Captain Roberts?"

"Oh, I believe e'eryone knows of ya arrangement, lad."

He winced. _Damn._

"I was... Just wondering..."

"Aye?"

_Well, you've done it now,_ Westley thought wryly. _Might as well pull through. He'll only over-pepper the soup if you don't._

"Has Captain Roberts ever taken a cabin boy, before?"

Lips pursed, Jack tilted his face up so he could scratch under his enormous chin. Thoughtfully, he said, "I've been on 'tis ship for a long time, lad. Been with _Roberts_ since t'start. Some would say I know'em better'n any other."

He was unaware that he had actually scooted to the edge of the wooden stool he had been sitting on until he scooted too far, and ended up bumbling the potato and knife that ended up in the pile of skins. His face burned when the aged cook shot him an amused look over his shoulder.

"_As I was saying_," Jack smirked. "I've known Roberts f'long time. Inna lotta ways, lad, ya're much like'em." A warning look cut off any protest Westley might have voiced, and, properly chastised, he went back to trying to find the knife in the potato-skins. "Solitary, proud creatures, ya are. Ya'll defend what's yours without a second thought, tooth and nail."

He could feel his ears burning.

"Roberts tis a good captain," He continued, stirring the lightly simmering soup. "And a good man." He turned an eye on Westley that made him squirm and avoid its too-knowing gaze. "He is not cruel just to be cruel. Whatever Roberts does, he does it for a reason." Pointedly, the cook turned his back on the youth, a signal that the conversation was over.

Later that night, under the blue-black sky dotted with stars and a pale crescent moon, lying down on the freshly scrubbled deck that swayed with the gentle waves, Westley was once again running the cooks words through his mind.

"Oi, lad," a voice said mildly. It took all of Westleys self-discipline not to scream like a small child. "What're ye doin' out here at t'is hour?"

He wasn't too sure he trusted his voice, so he just shrugged, splinters from the wood catching his shirt. When he settled, they stuck uncomfortably into his skin.

"So," Roberts mused, settling himself against the railing just a few feet from Westley. "I heard ye wanted t'speak with me, eh boy?"

For what felt like the thousandth time that night, he could feel his face burn. "N-no," He muttered, keeping his eyes firmly set on the stars above.

"Lad," The pirate rumbled out with a laugh. "Ye 'ave t'be t'worst liar I've ever 'ad the pleasure 'o meetin'."

He firmly believed that if he did not acknowledge the blush staining his cheeks, it would go away. Really.

"I do not wish to bring the topic up again," He mumbled, turning his face away from the sky and instead studying the ships mast. After a moment, he closed his eyes with a light sigh.

A strange rasping noise, and from the corner of his eye, he could see Roberts scratch his beard. "Ye know, lad," He began thoughtfully. "Wot dear ol' Jack told ye s'true. We ain't too undisimiliar." He wanted to point out how 'undisimiliar' wasn't a word, but he held his tongue. "Wot Jack told ye, lad. At t'end. E'erything I do, tis fer a reason." His eyes snapped open when he felt the unmistakeable feeling of having his _hair ruffled._ "Dunna forget that, eh, lad?"

Shocked beyond words, Westley watched Roberts swagger off towards his cabin.

"Oh, and lad," he paused, calling back cheerfully. Snapped from his amazement, Westley attempted(and failed) to stop the crooked smile from taking over his face. Rolling his eyes, he mouthed along the words Roberts was speaking, and had spoken, every night before bed.

"..Most likely kill ye in t'mornin'!"

With that, and a large yawn, he was lulled to sleep by the calm slapping of waves against the boat.


	5. Dreams

_Nine months at sea_  
><em>Twelve minutes on land<em>

_Oh my God._

The single thought seemed to have repeated itself at least a dozen times.

_Oh... My God._

It really couldn't be possible. Sure, Westley had known that eventually they'd had to come back to dry land. Restock supplies(he really was getting tired of potatoes) and whatnot. But he never expected for Roberts to... To...

Snapped from his internal horrified disbelief, Westley was pitched forward as Roberts slapped him on the back hard enough to crack a few ribs.

"It ain't nothin' special," Roberts said, tone almost nostalgic. "But it'll do, methinks."

"Roberts," He said, too stricken to realize he used the pirates' first name. "_What... _What... Is.. this place?"

Some form of Hell, Westley was sure. The building they were standing infront of was huge and worn-down, in desperate need of paint and repairs. The windows were moldy and rotting, falling apart in some places and just crumbling away in others. Dirt, muck and various other things he didn't want to think about covered the cracked building. Men of mostly the same walks of life loitered out front, alternating between shouting at eachother and sending bleary eyed winks and toothless leers to the overpowdered and perfumed women beside them.

At some point, Westley must have stopped breathing.

He gulped air like a dying man.

"Rober-" The pirates eyes narrowed, and he quickly backtracked. "_Captain. _There's no possible... Concievable way I can... _Enter _this building!"

Roberts burst out laughing.

"Oi lad! Get yer knickers outta tha' twist. Ain't possible tis yer first time at such a," His caterpillar eyebrows wiggled. "_business _sucha' this."

His face heating up told Rogers all he needed to know, and the pirate had to lean against a nearby fellow who looked barely capable enough to hold his own self up.

"It isn't funny!" He insisted, cheeks flaming. "Such things are... Are _private _and should _mean _something and not be treated as if... As if none of it makes any difference!"

Eventually Roberts righted himself and slung a friendly arm around the youths shoulders. "Ah, lad," He sighed. "Dunna ye see? In t'ese troubled times, it hardly does."

Westley felt physically ill.

"I believe I am going to vomit." He announced.. Roberts chuckled.

"Tis life, son. Not all 'ov it tis flowers an' a casual stroll."

He kept stubbornly silent, and didn't even deign to glance at the older man beside him. Had he, he would been wary to see the sly look pass over Roberts' face.

"So, I s'pose..." He scratched his beard in contemplation. "That ye never...?" He didn't reply, but the reddening of his cheeks and slight flicker of his eyes gave him away. Roberts barked out a laugh while Westley cursed his pale skin.

"I dunna believe it!" He chortled. "Ye a man'o nearly wot, twen'y summers..? Ye shoulda had ye a lass quite a bit ago, lad."

Westley had, in the months he was in Roberts' company, felt many things toward the man. At first, rage and contempt, which reluctantly transformed into awe and trepidation at the path of life he had chosen. Soon, even that had transformed. It had taken weeks for him to admit he actually... _Admired _the pirate. In some ways. Certainly not all of them... But in some ways, Roberts was a man to be respected, albeit fear was understandable and seemed to be much more common than respect. Westley would even go so far as to say that should certain aspects of Roberts life be changed, he could even turn to be a man greatly admired.

But Roberts was someone who had sailed the seas, and been alive long enough to see terrible, horrible things. Some of which he may have done himself.

In a split second of clarity at the seemingly harmless and amused words that spilled from the pirates' lips, Westley realized that life had made him bitter. Cynical.

There was, he was sure Roberts believed, hardly-if _anything_-worth believing in anymore.

Earlier, when they had reached land, when Westley had been led to the brothel house, he had felt relief and excitement and then disbelief and anger.

Now he just felt so unbearably sad.

He disentangled himself from the surprised man and took a step away.

"Something like this," He gestured to the brothel. "...It should mean something. It _does _mean something." He shook his head, and did something he never expected he'd ever do. He turned his back, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked away. "I'm honestly sorry you don't understand that."

He didn't hear any sort of protest behind him(nor was he assaulted with any kind of blunt object)he figured he was in the clear. Despite believing completely and wholly in what he had just told the older pirate, it didn't mean he didn't have half a mind trained on some kind of impending physical injury.

Still, nothing came.

After that, he really has no idea what to do with himself. He's memorized the way back to the docks, though, and corner he turns into he adds to his mental map and so he's _pretty _sure he won't get lost, so he just keeps walking.

He doesn't stop until he's exhausted and his feet are aching and he's pretty sure the filthy smell of the town will never leave his being as long as he lives. Manure is one thing. The town that smells suspiciously like decay is another.

So he takes a break, knowing he's already grimy and smelly, and slides himself down a wall and sits on the cold, wet ground, and tries not to think too much about Buttercup. There's a knife somewhere in his chest, and everytime he thinks or name or pictures her face or even _breathes _the knife twists and turns and his lungs burn and it's physically painful to be alive and away from her at the same time.

Then something from the corner of his eye moves, and Westley is suddenly staring into a pair of very solemn brown eyes.

"Hello." The voice is high, soft and sweet and belonging to a child of no more than ten summers. Jet black hair is messy and jutting out in all directions, and dirt-smudged cheeks aren't as chubby as they should have been. The child is clothed in rags.

Westley feels something in his chest wrench at the sight.

"Hello," He murmurs back. The child boldly walks up to him, and plops themselves down beside him.

"What's your name?" The child cocks their head, and a tuft of hair falls into clear eyes.

"It's polite to give your name first before asking someone theirs," Westley replied, a corner of his lips tilting up humorlessly.

"It's hard to give something you don't have," they said, in such a way he was inclined to think it had been repeated many times before.

"You don't have a name?" He murmurs.

"The market wives call me a pest. You can call me that, too. If you like."

"...I don't believe I do. Perhaps we can find something better? Is there any name that you fancy more than others?"

The child takes a moment to consider this, knobby knees pressed against a thin chest and thin hands linked together infront of them. "Once, I heard someone talking to another person. They called him Herbert. Lord Herbert." A deep, rattling sigh. "I would like to be a Lord, someday."

"Perhaps you will," Westley said. He knows, without giving it any conscious thought, he believes it. "would you like to be Lord Herbert?"

"...No," The child decides. "That was the mans name. It isn't very nice to steal other peoples' names." _Or to not have one yourself,_ but he doesn't say this. "Could..."

The hesitance makes his eyes soften.

"...Could I just be Herbart?" Westley blinks, but does notice the very miniscule change in the name. "I'm not a Lord yet... And I'm not Herbert either." Smaller now, gentler, as if made of glass; "I just want to be Herbart."

And that is when Westley realized a heart could break over more than just love.

"Well, Herbart," 'Herbart' blinks slowly, watching him cautiously, as if at any moment he'd suddenly say '_Surprise! Got you!_' and refer to him as a pest. "My name is Westley."

"...Westley," the child tests it out. "Hello, Westley."

"Hello, Herbart."

Introductions are cut short when a commotion breaks out just around the corner, and the child sighs, stands up, brushes off their rags, and walks to the very corner, pausing only to turn around and wave.

"Goodbye, Westley."

"Wait!" His tired legs tangle beneath him as he tries to rise, and he ends up in a rather undignified mess in the street. "Wait, Herbart! I... _Come with me._" Which is absurd. Utterly _absurd_.

But they're so alone, so terribly alone and they've seen so much, and they remind him so much of himself at that age his stomach is in knots and images of Buttercup and a childs smile is racing through his head, and at first the childs smile is Herbarts and its wide and missing teeth but it's childish and beaming and suddenly the dark hair lightens to gold, brown eyes turn blue and it's _her _smile he's seeing the face of an infant-

"I'm sorry, Westley," Herbart calls back, already inching around the corner and beginning to disappear. "But there's no hope for dreams here."

Then Herbarts gone, and Westley doesn't feel like getting up anymore.

* * *

><p>This is far longer than any other chapter I've written... And that's simply because I spent all night writing it. Yes, you heard me. <em>All night. <em>I have had WordPad open all night, writing in bits and pieces of this when the mood struck, and unable to find an ending that satisfied. Which is where Herbart came in.

I should probably stop this here, cause if I don't I'll ramble on(_all day _after not sleeping _all night_)but I'd like to say something; first of all, your guys' reviews are great. Seriously, I wasn't expecting... Well, anything. This was made just to get ideas for this out of my head, finally. But the reviews I have gotten are awesome and wonderful and I love them all.

Second. This is rated T. And, well, it's for a reason. There's not going to be any _hot and heavy _stuff of any sort, but there will be 'unsavory' themes. I.E. The brothel Roberts took Westley to in the beginning. I apologize if anyone has any problems with this, but this isn't a happy(sometimes, mostly, kinda) story. It's not really a fairytale. This is ideas of what Westley must have gone through to finally embark on his fairytale. In the beginning things were great, then they sucked, and they got harder to cope with, but in the end, everything turned out great because that's what fairytales are made of. But this may or may not have a happy ending. It may or may not have a happy middle.

But this isn't the fairytale we all know and love. Some things will go wrong, and they may never be right again. But everything leads up to the moment he gets on that boat, and follows Inigo and Fezzik and Vizzini and their kidnapped prize. When that moment comes, the real adventure begins. And when the final moment occurs(_Since the invention of the kiss, there have been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. ...This one left them all behind._), we know that their happily ever after is hard-won and well earned.

And I don't know where I'm going with this.

I need sleep.

This is too long.

Gubi.


	6. Fever

_Nine months at sea_  
><em>Three hours on land<em>

As was Westleys luck, when he had finally shaken himself out of his inner ponderings, he realized he had completely forgotten where he was.

The sky was darkening; turning an angry, volatile black and grey as clouds rolled in heavily. It couldn't've been half passed noon, so night was still a decent ways off, but appeared to have come early as nearly all light had vanished but for the candles and lamps inside rundown homes and buildings.

The wind was starting to pick up, dragging at his ragtag clothes and whipping his hair into his face as he squinted down the cobblestone road. Was it a left or a right he had taken...?

Nobody was out on the streets; all doors and windows were firmly locked and shut. He doubted, even as the thought formed in his mind, that anyone would peek out to the random, frantic knocking of a stranger.

Or their own neighbor, for that matter.

Thoroughly depressed now, he wondered if he should just try to find some shelter and wait for Roberts or one of the crew to come looking for him. Although this wasn't a very likely prospect, considering how he had not only backtalked his superior(he wanted to snort, but was shivering too much to do anything besides cross his arms and not let his teeth chatter too loudly), he'd also turned around and walked away without waiting for any sort of acknowledgement or... Or dismissal or...

He wanted to groan and bury his face in his hands. In hindsight, Westley knew the best thing he could've done was simply kept quiet, and maybe gone back to the ship. If it came down to it, he might've even had to pretend to... With one of the brothels... And no one would have been the wiser!

But no. His stupid mouth and his stupid morals had gotten him into trouble. _Again. _When would he finally learn to just shut up and accept that things were the way they were? When would he realize that no matter how much he wanted to(and did!) argue, they would not change? _When would it finally sink in he could not change the world?_

Confronted with a stooped doorway, shoulders hunched against the wind and sudden, biting cold, he dropped to the step and sat there, staring broodily out from under windswept bangs.

He was a fool, Westley decided suddenly, hunching in to curve his spine against the wall to avoid the worst of the wind. He was a fool and an idiot, and... His lids were starting to droop.

_Oh no. It wouldn't do any good to fall asleep out in the streets like this_, his sleepy brain thought. _Robbed.. stabbed.. Worse.. Wake up in the morning without clothes or teeth... _His thoughts were starting to get blurry now. His eyelids felt too heavy for his face. There was something, vague and quickly getting farther and farther away from his mental reach, that he knew he was suppose to be doing, but he just couldn't think of what it might be...

He was dreaming. Maybe. He was floating anyhow. Blissful, peaceful, with no worries and no heavy thoughts to drag him down. Only blissful lightness. It was a tad warm here, but what did that matter? He was weightless; life was good.

_Bloody..._

...Wait, what?

_...Boy!_

He wanted to frown, but such a move wasn't welcome here. It was heavy, and he didn't want to feel heavy anymore. He just wanted to be left alone. Was that so much to ask?

_Goddamn... Nev'r... Lis'n..._

Go away, he wanted to tell the intruder. _Go away._

_...Ye dunna speak... Way... 'ter... Cap'n!_

Something forced itself into his happy place; a dim memory, a place in time. Cold. Unwelcome feelings. He started to get heavier. Something was beginning to weigh him down.

He couldn't...

He didn't want to...

Just leave him alone!

_Yer'll get up... 'fore... Give ye... Twen'y lashin's!_

He thinks he groaned. Pain suddenly bloomed at his temple, effectively doing what the voice could not; he was heavy now. His world had shattered, and now everything was blurry and confusing. Opening his eyes hurt, so he stopped trying and just let the voices(clearer, more distinct now)wash over him.

"Whatta ya go'n do that fer, Ry? T'boy is already sufferin'! He dun't needa ya messin' wit' his tinker on top'o that!"

"Aw, Jackie! Dunna be that way... T'boy needed a righ' good smack'er two."

"Bu' not _now_!"

"Got'em t'come 'round, dinna it?"

"Wh... T'boys awake?"

"Has been since ya started ya're motherly naggin'."

"Oi! _Wes'ley! _Ya awake, boy?"

He thinks he might've fluttered his lashes. Er, his eyelids. Yes. Eyelids. Much more manly.

A chuckle. "T'boy be fit as o'fiddle, Jackie."

"Oi, what're ya know? Ya're the one 'ho lost'em in the first bloomin' place!"

"'Ey, ey now... I dinna lose t'boy, he.. Er, ran off."

The silence had become both very smug and very put out, but he had already dropped back off to sleep.

* * *

><p>I apologize for the length, but I just wasn't sure how to make anything else flow. Next one should be out soon. Thank you~<p> 


	7. Divine Intervention

_Nine months at sea_  
><em>Some odd hours on land<em>

Westley isn't absolutely sure he knows exactly what's going on, but he knows that he doesn't approve of how loud it is. There's a small man chopping wood behind his left eye, and every time the little mans axe falls, his eye throbs. He's not amused.

Something wet and lukeworm is trying to part his lips, but there's a horrid taste in his mouth and he's afraid if he pries his tongue from the roof of his mouth, he'll swallow it.

"Aw, c'mon now lad, be a man'n accept t'drink."

Wait. He knows that voice.

"...Ye either list'n to m'now, or be pay'n t'consequences later." There's a distinctly promising, malicious smirk attached to the not-so-mysterious voice. He wants to tell it that if he opens his mouth, he's going to choke on his tongue.

Something groans, and he thinks it might be him, because his throat is in sudden agonyh.

"Dunna be such a lass, son. Open yer mouth n'drink."

He doesn't wanna-

"Now."

Fine.

It takes a moment or two, but he finally finds the strength to pry his lips apart and not wince too much at the dry cavern that has become his mouth. The liquid pours in as the voice rumbles out approval.

And that's when Westley wants to die.

"Cap-? What in'ta name'o... _Argh_! Devil! Leave t'boy alone, for Chrissake!"

"W-? Ah! _Dunna ye start throw'n things at me_!"

"Don't ye start force-feedin' t'boy _whiskey_!"

"I wasn'na force-feedin'em _nothin'_, ye crotchedy old-!"

His throat is on fire. It's going in all directions; down his throat, burning a path up to his nose, climbing back inside the Hell that is his mouth. He's coughing, gagging and choking and trying to gasp in breaths all at once. He is literally afraid that he is going to suffocate to death, and has a brief bleary instant where he flashes back to the first meeting with Roberts, and wishes his demise could have been as quick as that. A single instant of pain, perhaps. A momentary flash of panic and fear and guilt.

But no.

Now, he is going to suffer.

"Ah, hell. Lad, yer gotta sit up now. Thass it, laddie, just like that." The voice is back. Westley now recognizes it as the Devil.

The fire is receding, but only slightly. Every cough is like a fan to the flames, bringing back the white-hot pain and encouraging it to higher heights.

"Here, lad. Drink this."

Something wet and cooler than the first liquid touches his lips. He absolutely refuses to open them, biting back the soul-wracking coughs and heaves that want to come forth. His eyes are tearing from the effort, but if he's going to die, he will die as he chooses.

A small voice in the back of his head that resembled a very disgruntled Buttercup demands he quit being a toddler and just _drink already, farmboy!_

He immediately parts his lips, and paradise is splashing down his throat. Westley has always believed in God(for beauty such as Buttercups couldn't be Earthly, and there was no possible concievable way that a human heart, a _soul _could hold as much affection as he does for her without Divine intervention), but with the fresh taste of water, his faith is renewed.

'Amen,' He thinks dreamily. Buttercups wavering smirk is what greets him behind his eyes. The deep pool of blissful sleep that pulls him under moments later is welcomed with open arms.

When he next wakens, his head is heavy and he can barely keep his eyes open, but he absolutely refuses to be dragged back under to unconsciousness. There's a sort of restlessness in his limbs urging him to get up and move, but there's a deep underlying ache that loudly protests any movement. He can't ever recall having felt so horrible before.

Almost instinctively, he knows that this is somehow Roberts' fault.

He's still a bit groggy, but he forces his eyes to squint open to take in his surroundings. He has been asleep for far too long, he knows, and it's time to start being alert. He's not quite sure how to achieve this with everything being so out of focus, but he'll take what he can get.

He catches the end of a faint, muffled noise, but he can't pinpoint exactly where it is-or even _what _it is. The front of his skull is starting to throb again as he tries to concentrate.

Unwillingly, Westley drops back into a fitful sleep.

* * *

><p><em>Things should pick up in the next update, and hopefully be quite a bit longer. Possibly even more exciting, since I was thinking about how to introduce the iocane. But yeah, Westley is sick, and he really just wants to die.<em>

_I can sympathize. Damn allergies._

_(Roberts just lives to cause trouble, can you tell?)_


End file.
